


i really wanna kiss you! (i think i might)

by cool lesbian (falloutblink182)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Kisses, Kissing, Sleepy Kisses, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), but its still fluffy trust me this is so fluffy, everybody say cheese, freckles r angel kisses, i lied there is now a tiny smidge of angst but its okay, i must use italics or i'll die, literally just pure fluff, luv that thats a tag, my excuse is that im a gay literature student, no angst no sads just soft gay kisses thank u, no bads just goods, now featuring a PLOT TWIST, okay lets update the tags for ch 2, overuse of italics and commas, theres still lots of kisses, they're just like.....so in love my dudes, we dream of domesticity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2020-09-27 09:50:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20405749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falloutblink182/pseuds/cool%20lesbian
Summary: Some humans say that freckles are angel kisses.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoyed writing this one! I have an idea for a second chapter as well, so I might write a bit more for this.
> 
> Title is from "Freckles and Constellations" by dodie, because I'm still 15 at heart.

Crowley wakes for the first time surrounded in a warmth that he doesn’t think he will ever get used to. His eyes blink open slowly to see Aziraphale curled up in the duvet next to him, peaceful features partially illuminated by the soft amber glow of the streetlights leaking in through the blinds. There’s a part of him that can’t quite believe that this is real – that the apocalypse has been diverted, that Heaven and Hell have agreed to leave them both alone, that Aziraphale…

Aziraphale _loves him. _

Crowley sits up in his bed, careful not to wake or disturb Aziraphale. He covers his mouth to stop himself from laughing out loud incredulously – Aziraphale _loves him, _he said so himself just last night, and Crowley _finally _got to tell Aziraphale that he loves him back, and it’s _real. _Aziraphale is alive, and lying in Crowley’s bed, and there’s a little bit of dried drool on his chin, and Crowley thinks he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his entire life. He leans over to place a kiss on Aziraphale’s shoulder before wiping the sleep out of his yellow eyes, and lazily plodding to the kitchen to start making breakfast.

Aziraphale’s sweater is folded neatly on Crowley’s dresser and there’s a chill in the flat without the duvet or the angel’s ever-present body heat, so Crowley grabs it absentmindedly and pulls it on before leaving his room. It’s soft, much softer than most of the things he owns, and he likes the way the sleeves cover his hands. He sleepily brings a wool-covered hand up to his face as he walks and he is so distracted by the way the material feels against his skin that he almost doesn’t notice… _the freckle. _

See, in the hall leading from the bedroom to the kitchen, Crowley has hung a mirror. It’s nothing fancy, really – its presence is mostly there for aesthetic purposes because Crowley thought it fit in with the minimalist vibe he was going for when designing his flat. In his tired, barely-awake state he didn’t notice the _freckle _until he was actually past the mirror, causing him turn suddenly on the slippery lino floor (almost tripping over) in order to examine it in the mirror closer.

On his forehead, just above his left eyebrow, is a freckle – a freckle he is certain wasn’t there before. He pokes at it curiously, his eyes transfixed and unblinking, until he spots another new addition to his face in the middle of his right cheek. He pokes at this one too, so that he is squishing his face from both sides. He frowns. _Where _did they come from? There was no expla- oh.

_Oh. _

The night before, he and Aziraphale had kissed for the very first time (and the second and the third and the fourth…). The two of them hadn’t done much more than kiss - both of them were scared that if they went too fast then they would break this new and fragile thing that was blossoming between them – but they kissed, they kissed again and again and again, and Aziraphale had kissed Crowley’s cheek, and he had kissed Crowley’s forehead just before the two of them drifted off to sleep, and he had kissed the back of Crowley’s hand; Crowley lifts his hand, and sure enough, a new freckle has found it’s home there.

He stares at the back of his hand with tired confusion, so baffled that he doesn’t realise Aziraphale creeping up behind him until the angel’s arms are wrapped around his waist.

“You always mock my clothes,” Aziraphale says in between leaving kisses along Crowley’s neck. “And yet here you are, wearing my jumper and staring at your own reflection.”

Crowley huffs a laugh. “It’s not the jumper I’m staring at, it’s – look!” He points at where Aziraphale is kissing him, at the trail of freckles that has appeared there only now. “Look what you’ve done!” Despite his words, his tone isn’t annoyed, and there’s laughter in his voice. Aziraphale grins, trails a finger gently over the little freckle-y pathway.

“Oh my,” he turns Crowley around and kisses the demon’s nose. “This,” a kiss on his cheek, “calls,” a kiss on his chin, “for”, a kiss on his collarbone, “some”, a kiss on his ear, “experimentation.” A kiss on his mouth.

When they pull apart, Aziraphale feels like he could be knocked out from the sheer amount of _love _radiating from Crowley. His eyes are filled with sleep still, but he’s looking at Aziraphale with pure and unrestrained _wonder, _a wonder that Aziraphale can only imagine is reflected on his own face*. He’s beautiful like this, Aziraphale thinks. Of course, Aziraphale may be biased because he thinks Crowley is beautiful all the time, but there’s something particularly exquisite about him in this moment, with his bedhead and his sunglasses nowhere to be found and this jumper that is baggy on him and these new _freckles – _well, Aziraphale just has to kiss him again.

Crowley laughs into it, and is the first to pull away. “Angel – why do you think they’re _there?” _

Aziraphale thinks he’s joking, but when he looks up Crowley just looks completely and utterly perplexed.

Crowley goes on: “I mean, I don’t _mind, _particularly – especially considering your reaction to them,” the demon’s cheeks go a bit pink at this admission. How anyone in the history of the world has _ever _thought this <strike>man demon person</strike> _individual _to be _suave, _Aziraphale will never understand. “But why are they there?”

He reaches up to touch his own face, to trail his finger where he felt Aziraphale kiss him just moments before. He’s a little off the mark – as he’s no longer looking at his reflection – so Aziraphale guides his hand to the right place, leading Crowley’s finger down the little stream of freckles.

“My dear boy, don’t you know of the saying?” Aziraphale’s voice is little more than a whisper. Crowley shakes his head minutely, takes the hand that Aziraphale is using to guide his own, presses his lips to the palm.

“What saying might that be?”

“Well, some humans do say that – that every freckle is an angel’s kiss.” Aziraphale reaches out to comb a hand through Crowley’s mess of red hair, because _he’s allowed to now, _and Crowley buries his head in Aziraphale’s shoulder. He starts to shake, and Aziraphale is instantly worried that he’s messed this up somehow, _why is he crying oh my Someone what have I done – _but then Crowley pulls back and he’s not crying but _laughing – _no. Not laughing. Crowley, Serpent of Eden, Demon of Hell, The Original Tempter, Creator of Chaos and Minor Inconveniences, is wearing his boxers and Aziraphale’s jumper and is _giggling. _

If Hastur could only see him now.

Aziraphale can’t help but join in, because it is a _little _ridiculous, because although he has known for some time that this was a – a _side-effect, _of sorts, to his kisses (over the many years he has lived on Earth, he has been highly influenced by European cultures and very much enjoys kissing people on the cheek in greeting**), last night he never stopped to think about how every kiss he would give Crowley would result in this. He was so caught up in – well, _everything else,_ that it didn’t even cross his mind. Now, though – it seems ridiculous, and silly, and _funny. _

“Crowley, my dear,” he manages to get out between his laughter, “I’m afraid that very soon you may become one, single, freckle. Nobody will be able to see that you’re a person! All they’ll see is one freckle with dashing red hair.”

Crowley, in a great act of nobility, manages to stop giggling just long enough to ask “Why?”.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Because it seems that I quite enjoy kissing you, actually – I would rather like to kiss every inch of you, if you’ll let me. I’d like to kiss you forever.”

“Forever?”

“And ever and ever and ever.”

Crowley snorts.

“That’s an awful long time, angel.” He raises an eyebrow. Aziraphale kisses his nose again.

(Another freckle appears.)

“Oh, I do so hope that it’ll be a long time. Though I must say – I don’t see anything ‘awful’ about it, personally.”

Crowley feels something explode somewhere deep within him. Not a bad explosion – it’s more like one last incredible firework going off after you think the show is finished. You were already content and satisfied – nothing else was wanted, or needed, but you gain something you had no idea you were even missing to begin with.

“Well then,” he says, aiming for smooth (and missing by a long shot, but Aziraphale doesn’t mind***). “We better get started on forever then, hadn’t we?”

* * *

*It is!

**Also: It is a truth universally acknowledged that Aziraphale fucks. Cheeks are not the only things he has given freckles in his time.

***Aziraphale decidedly is _in to it, _so everyone’s a winner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd like to apologise 2 jane austen for bastardising her famous opening line to imply that aziraphale is a thot. also can u tell i listened to pink in the night when writing this lmao. 
> 
> remember folks: every comment u leave brings us closer to achieving gay rights


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this idea for a ch.2 has been eating away at me for ages so here, have this garbage, ur welcome.

Time passes, as it is wont to do, and almost a year after the Apoca-Wasn't a certain pair of celestial/occult/ethereal entities can be found living not in London, but in a beautiful cottage in the South Downs. It's not all easy - but then, life never is. There's confessions and apologies and tears and nightmares, but above all this there is a great deal of love; love that's been growing stronger and stronger every day for over 6000 years, a love so supernaturally improbable that it can only really be described as human. 

Crowley, since being in the South Downs, has reformed the cottage's little garden from something that was dying and cluttered into something thriving and wonderful. Honeysuckle climbs up the walls, lavender attracts bees that bounce around, petunias and fuschias fill hanging baskets. On sunny days, he can usually be found with his hands in the dirt as he sings along to whatever plays on the little pink radio Aziraphale found in a charity shop. When it rains heavily (which it does often - it is England, after all), or there's heavy winds, he stands at the big glass sliding doors that look onto the back garden and mumbles to himself with a furrowed brow about whether the supports and covers he has set up will be enough to protect his flowers, until Aziraphale gently presses a cup of coffee into his hands and guides him away (but not before casting a discrete miracle to make sure the weather knows how disappointed he'd be if it dared to harm his demon's garden). 

Aziraphale, meanwhile, busies himself with his books. The majority of his collection remains, of course, in his store - despite all the grime and noise, one can never really leave London for good, and Aziraphale in particular just couldn't bare to leave behind his little store that he had dreamt up all those hundreds of years ago. He brings some with him to the South Downs though, a few favourites and a few new copies that he hasn't had a good look at yet. He reads different now, he finds - there's no guilt in spending a little extra time savouring each word choice, each punctuation mark, each crisp page. He no longer reads books like he's starving and the words are his only way of survival, he doesn't race through book after book - he goes as slow and as steady as he likes, savouring the fact that nobody (i.e. Gabriel, the prick) will appear suddenly in his space and force him to leave his books behind immediately to do some urgent miracle up North. 

(Of course, there's Crowley, but the only times he tends to interrupt Aziraphale's reading is to either A) ask him if he wants to get something to eat or B) ask him to read out loud whilst Crowley flops over Aziraphale's lap. This, in Aziraphale's opinion, is 100% okay). 

Something they've started to do together, however, is baking. It's something new, something different, something neither of them have really ever tried before (despite Aziraphale's long-standing love of eating baked products, he's never felt particularly inclined to create them himself). They work well together, moving around each other in the kitchen as if it's some sort of waltz, always knowing what the other is looking for before they even have to ask. It's all very sickeningly domestic, and they couldn't be happier. 

They make all kinds of goodies - cupcakes and muffins, pastries and biscuits, but it's on a day where they're making cheese scones* when something rather out of the ordinary occurs. The pair are in the kitchen, windows thrown wide open to allow the soft breeze to carry the scents of Crowley's flowers in to the house. Soft voices play from the radio, and Aziraphale hums along as he stirs the flour and butter together. His humming is somewhat out of tune, and Crowley is hit by a sudden surge of love that flows through him and makes his fingers and toes tingle. He puts down the cheese that he's supposed to be grating and wraps his long arms around Aziraphale's soft middle. 

_ [*In households across the UK, the debate about the pronunciation of 'scone' is a frequent one - this household is no exception. Crowley actually has no preference, but if he is talking to someone who believes it to rhyme with 'stone' he will argue that it rhymes with 'gone' - if he is talking to someone who believes that it rhymes with 'gone' he will argue that it rhymes with 'stone'. Aziraphale, on the other hand, firmly believes that it rhymes with 'stone' and after 6000+ years still hasn't caught on to Crowley's contrary approach to the pronunciation of baked goods, so the Scone Argument is one that still causes a great deal of contention between the pair. Crowley loves it.] _

"Hello there," Aziraphale says softly, and Crowley buries his face into his angel's shoulder and mumbles something incoherent. 

"I'm sorry, my darling, I didn't quite catch that," Aziraphale pushes the bowl away before wiping his floury hands on his apron and turning around to face Crowley. "Perhaps you could repeat that?"

There's flour dusted along Aziraphale's left cheek, and Crowley gently brushes it off with his thumb.

"I said that I love you." 

Aziraphale smiles - one of the big bright smiles that Crowley has recently learned are reserved exclusively for him.

"You know - my hearing isn't what it used to be. Could you repeat that again?" 

Crowley laughs, and all Aziraphale can focus on is the way his eyes crinkle when he's happy. 

"I love you."

"Again?"

"I _ love _ you."

"One more time?"

"I love you!"

"Maybe just once more?"

"_Angel! _" Crowley laughs, loud and free. He leans forward to press a kiss on Aziraphale's forehead, and goes to press one to his cheek as well but freezes all of a sudden. 

"Crowley? Are you quite alright, my dear?" Aziraphale frowns up at where his demon is stood, staring transfixed at the angel's forehead. Crowley says nothing.

"Crowley?"

Crowley physically shakes himself, and clears his throat. 

"Angel, just - hang on, let me try something -" he stutters out, and before Aziraphale can say anything, Crowley is leaving a trail of kisses across his face.

Aziraphale, naturally, has no objections to this, but he is somewhat baffled by how distressed Crowley is looking. His freckled brow is furrowed, and he's chewing his freckled lip. 

"My dear, what ever is the matter?" Aziraphale takes both of Crowley's hands in his and holds them close to his heart. 

Crowley sighs.

"I - er, I don't know how to -" Crowley's eyes seem to be exploring every inch of Aziraphale's face except for his eyes. "I think we have a problem."

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. 

"What sort of problem?"

Crowley bites his lip and says nothing, and Aziraphale can see tears threatening to spill from those big golden eyes he loves so dearly. 

"My dear boy - on a scale of one to ten, how badly are you freaking out right now?" Aziraphale says gently, and Crowley lets out a shaky breath. 

"Eleven, angel. This is an eleven."

"Can you tell me why?"

After a moment of hesitation, Crowley nods, and lifts Aziraphale's hand up to his lips. He gently presses a path of kisses along the inside of the angel's wrist, his dark lashes fluttering closed as he does so. 

"Crowley, what are you -" Aziraphale trails off when Crowley removes his lips and strokes a finger gently over the pathway, before silently showing Aziraphale what he had done.

Aziraphale instantly understands - how can he not? There, on his wrist, clear as day, is a trail of freckles - freckles that most assuredly had not been there before. 

"_ Oh _." Aziraphale says.

"Oh." Crowley agrees.

"But -"

"I know."

"Does that mean- ?"

"I don't know."

"Do you- ?"

"I don't _ know _!"

Aziraphale tears his eyes away from his arm, and looks Crowley in the eye. Crowley, for one, looks like he's on the verge of running far, far away and/or locking himself in a nice cool dark room and sleeping for a century. Whilst Aziraphale was focused on his brand new freckles, Crowley must've used the opportunity to miracle his sunglasses into making an appearance, because his face is now half obscured. 

"Darling, we'll be okay. You'll be okay." Aziraphale reaches up to cradle Crowley's face - he doesn't take the glasses off but he does brush his thumbs under the lenses where he knows tears have started to fall. 

Crowley sniffs loudly and nods.

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right. We'll be fine." He grins shakily at his angel who smiles right back up at him, and for once, Crowley actually believes what he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi ! i hope u enjoyed this - i actually am not a huge fan of headcanons/fics where aziraphale falls/crowley rises after the apoca-whoops bc i think it kind of goes against the message of the show or smthing idk buttt i thought this would be a cute epilogue-type thing so !! if u don't like angel!crowley i fully understand and im on ur side so u can just pretend this chapter doesn't exist if u want lmao ANYWAY thank u for reading <33
> 
> ps sorry for any spelling mistakes i dont have microsoft office atm so i used a program that has no spellcheck. nightmare.


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